Stolen

The minutes that followed were an exercise in sensory deprivation. Devin existed as a singular, pulsing point of awareness, trapped in the pose he was left in. He became hyper-aware of the biological clock ticking in his veins—the slow, heavy thrum of a heart that no longer belonged to a man, beating inside a chest that felt like a soft, foreign weight. He was a secret kept by a velvet room, a living sculpture of longing and terror, waiting for a command that never came.

The silence was shattered, by the sharp, pneumatic hiss of the door sliding open. A sliver of bright, clinical light sliced through the amber haze, and two silhouettes stepped inside. They were dressed in seamless, midnight-black attire—tactical fabrics that absorbed the light of the room, making them look like voids carved out of the atmosphere. A woman and a man, their movements urgent, their eyes scanning the room.

They came to a halt beside the pedestal, their shadows enveloping Devin. He could see the woman’s eyes—sharp, calculating—as she leaned in to inspect the "product."

"Look at the pore definition," she whispered, her voice a low rasp. "Even the eyes... They are getting really good at this. No wonder it’s tucked away in a private chamber. I bet some men would pay a fortune for it."

The man grunted in agreement, his gaze lingering on the curvature of Devin’s hips. "Nerds that dream of real woman but are to shy to speak to them."

Curiosity got the better of the woman. She reached out, her fingertips grazing the pale, exposed skin of Devin’s inner thigh. The moment contact was made, her breath hitched. She didn't just feel the texture of skin; she felt the radiating heat. "What the fuck," she breathed, her eyes widening. "It’s warm. It’s actually warm."

The man didn't share her sense of wonder; he shared a sense of appetite. Following her lead, he stepped closer, but his touch lacked any shred of clinical curiosity. He reached down and gripped one of Devin’s breasts, squeezing the soft, reconstructed tissue with a firm, possessive pressure. Devin’s mind recoiled, a silent scream echoing in the void of his consciousness, but his body remained a compliant sculpture.

"Feels exactly like yours" the man stated flatly, his voice devoid of empathy. "Maybe even softer." Her hand snapped back "maybe you should fuck it rather than me then." She turned away to open the suitcase they brought and position it right next to devin.

The transition from "product" to "loot" happened in seconds. From a large, reinforced black suitcase they had brought along, the man produced a set of stabilizing foam inserts.

Devin felt the sudden, jarring shift of gravity as they hoisted him. Because he was already folded into the 'Pretzel' configuration, he fit into the suitcase with sickeningly ease. The woman snapped the buckles shut, plunging him into a suffocating, pitch-black darkness.

The world became a series of violent jolts. He felt the suitcase being moved, the rhythmic thud of footsteps, as they exited the building. He was no longer a centerpiece in a gallery; he was cargo. He could feel the slight shift of gravity of the suitcase as they dragged him, the vibrations of the street outside filtering through the hard plastic shell.

As they moved, Devin realized the true horror of his situation. He was a passenger in a body that no longer obeyed him, trapped in a box with two strangers who viewed him as loot. He wanted to fight, to kick, to scream until the suitcase burst open, but the neural override kept him in a state of serene, terrifying stillness. He was a living mannequin, packaged and delivered, headed toward a destination he couldn't imagine and a master he didn't know.

The suitcase finally came to a stop with a heavy thud. For a few moments, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then the suitcase was lifted into a car.